


The Glass Box

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Arya/Other - older!Arya masturbates to thoughts of shirtless Gendry."</p>
<p>Arya is 17 in this (making Gendry 21 or 22 by book reckoning).  Beware <b>SPOILERS</b> up to AFFC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glass Box

* * *

 

She has finally learned to forget who she is. But other things aren't left behind so easily.  
  
She learned a long time ago to keep both everyone she loved and everyone she hated from that other world in a glass box, safe, carefully preserved, closed up and locked away. _The time will come_ , she began to repeat to herself at night, instead of names. _The time will come_ , and she knew she would take out that box again when that time came.  
  
But some parts of her don't seem to listen. She's sixteen now, or maybe just recently seventeen -- her name-day is in that box, too, and she hasn't looked there in a long time -- but she still has dreams. Dreams of a wolf ruling a forest, howling mournfully to the moon over a pack lost -- glass boxes mean nothing to _her_. And dreams of blood and gurgling death, the ones that leave her awake and open-eyed, wet with sweat and feeling dead inside.  
  
But other dreams, too.  
  
Last week she stole down to the reservoir when the moon was full, just to see it shimmer on the water. Cold water, now that winter has come. But there was already someone there. Quiet as a mouse, still as a shadow, she hid so she could see: it was two someones. A boy and a girl, about her own age, trying to muffle their laughter against each other's lips. Their skin shone in the moonlight, and the water rippled, making their quiet sounds echo in the night. Soft slap of skin-on-skin, their heavy breaths, their hushed moans. She watched until they were done.  
  
When she returned to the House she lay in bed, thinking. What she was thinking of, she couldn't have said. She slept that night, deeply and unbroken, but something in her must have been stirred, like the still water of the reservoir, because the dreams have visited her every night since then.

At first she thought they were nameless, faceless. But now she knows better. The man in them always has a face now, always has a voice that warms her skin when he whispers into her ear. _I missed you -- I knew you'd come back -- I waited.  
_

She's the girl in the water, and he's the boy, and it's his body she sees, it's his body that he presses against her. The one she remembers, the one that always made her confused, made her face go hot.   
  
She knows now why it did, and now her dreams bring her from the reservoir back to that other world, where she sees him again. They're sleeping together, back-to-back, poor as dirt, keeping each other warm, but this time she's no little girl, no little mouse. She flips him onto his back, holding her palm over his mouth to keep him quiet, takes him in her hand and fills up the ache between her legs with him.  
  
Or she's sleeping on the stone floor, not yet a ghost or a Faceless Girl, shivering and alone, and he steals in, saves her from everything. They're all dead, everyone who haunted her, everyone on her list. Her father's alive, her brothers and her mother too, and he's here -- she'll never have to be scared again. He takes both their clothes off and rubs her and kisses her everywhere, and he's so warm, so big pressing her to the wall, and she's never felt safe like this before, never.  
  
Or he's just here with her, and those are the dreams that are the worst. He's here in her bed, waiting for her, all hot skin and strong arms, when her days are done. He holds her against him and lets her sleep there, whispering things in that voice that her dreams won't let her keep sealed. He whispers against her eyes, and then against her lips, and he doesn't stop whispering when he parts her legs and slides in, filling her up, his broad chest rubbing against her breasts, sweet and rough on her nipples. He knows just how much she can take, how she needs it -- hard and fast, deep and perfect, how it will make her forget everything. And when she shudders and squeezes around him, and he spills himself inside her, he groans her name softly -- her true name, her real name.  
  
And in the morning she awakes, her hand between her legs, her fingers wet. She stares at them in the sunlight, breathing slowly, remembering the dream but not remembering anything her body did.  
  
Some things refuse to stay hidden away. Some things can't be kept in glass boxes.   
  
She might have known he would be one of them.


End file.
